


make things heavy again

by orphan_account



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-19
Updated: 2011-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:23:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eduardo and Mark's friendship had to start somewhere. It began its steady descent somewhere as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	make things heavy again

 

It's the first month of his freshman year of college and Eduardo's not good at making friends. His visceral reactions are too immediate and potent; he'll hang on for far too long to someone who's not worth the effort, and he'll brush anyone off after a bad first impression. Too bad that after eighteen years of life, he still has no idea what his standards are—it's resulted in a diverse social group, certainly, but also a _small_ one.

And now that he's at Harvard? He can add "nonexistent" to that list. Roommates are supposed to be the jumping off point, but Eduardo's having an alarming amount of difficulty connecting with the couple of blonde-haired, blue-blooded WASPs that share his room; the travails of a Brazilian Jew don't appear to have that much resonance, and Eduardo's not sure what else he can do to wash off the accusations of "affirmative action," save sharing his stash of Easy Mac.

So he's sitting in his writing seminar, trying and failing to pay attention to his professor's ridiculously overblown interpretation of _The Handmaid's Tale_ , when he overhears some guys in the row below him talking about a party. Eduardo's not trying to eavesdrop, he's really not, but, well, he hasn't exactly gotten wind of very many parties thus so far, which would theoretically be a good place to make some friends, and it sounds like an _open_ party, like one that he can just show up to without any repercussions, as far as he can tell. So it's not that bad for him to meticulously write down the place and date in his planner, not when he's sure he can make up some sort of excuse if somebody asks him what he's doing there. Besides, he's not even sure if he's going to go, anyway. It's just in case.

\---

It turns out that the party is affiliated with one of the more pathetic fraternities, a fact that Eduardo somehow managed to miss the first time around. It's at one of the houses, though, and there's probably alcohol hidden away somewhere if Eduardo was intent on looking for it, but he's not. He's people-watching instead, feeling a little overdressed in his pressed slacks and dress shirt and watching the fascinating mixture of people who are there in order to do a good service for others and those who are there because they _need_ to.

The guy he's fixating on now will probably fall into the latter category. He's not talking to anyone, much the same as Eduardo is, but the difference is that he fairly obviously doesn't _want_ to—or at least that's the aura that the scowl on his face is advertising. He's small, overwhelmed by the baggy jeans and hoodie he's wearing, with curly hair wild enough for Eduardo to indulge in some relentless stereotyping and identify him as a fellow Jew. He's got his hands in his pockets and he's leaning up against the wall in a way that might look a little James Dean on anyone else but really just screams _petulant little boy_ here and he's by far the most interesting looking person Eduardo's seen all night.

"You don't seem the usual type for these kind of things." Eduardo's not sure how he ended up over there, walking over to this boy's part of the wall (which is a ridiculous thought, it's not like he _owns_ it), but there he is, leaning up against him and nudging the guy's arm with an elbow almost tentatively.

The other boy looks up and gives a truly impressive eye roll. "My roommate's an idiot who hasn't given up hope yet," he says, and if the tone's not quite conversational, it's not combative enough to make Eduardo think that the eye roll's meant for _him_ rather than the situation as a whole. "He keeps thinking that if he drags me to every single one of these stupid pseudo-parties, I'll make friends and be gone on enough Friday nights that he can have sex with his girlfriend in our room to his heart's content."

Eduardo grins at that, a little uncertainly, like he's not sure if it's supposed to be funny or not, because he's realizing only now that this might be construed as _hitting_ on someone and that's a bit creepy, isn't it, considering that he's _really_ not. "No success yet, I'm gathering?"

"Depends on what your definition of success is. I've developed a ranking system for all of these little parties that's more than entertaining enough for me."

There's a devious little smirk now, in direct contrast with his seemingly serious manner, and _oh_ , so he's got a sense of humor, that's good—and Eduardo can't help but smile back, looking down at the other boy with no small amount of fascination. "Ranking, huh? How does this one fare?"

The other boy pauses in mock contemplation before continuing, looking at Eduardo almost slyly. "I'd rate the punch around a 7, which is higher than most of these things get, mind you, but as for everything else? It's not good enough to be an actual party, but it provides little entertainment value from a mockery perspective, either. On the whole, I'd deem it _almost_ a complete waste of time."

Eduardo laughs, stupidly, and he probably sounds like a thirteen-year-old girl right about now, but he's just so undeniably _relieved_ to find someone he likes that he can't help but let the giggle spill out of him. "I don't know," he says, regaining composure and emulating the serious tone. "I just saw the same guy get shot down by four different girls in the space of less than five minutes. That's pretty mock-worthy, if you ask me."

The response is a conciliatory little shrug, and Eduardo takes this a cue to plow on. "I'm Eduardo, by the way. Eduardo Saverin."

The other boy looks at him appraisingly for a moment, like he's not quite sure what to make of this guy who's intent on having an actual conversation with him. Then: "You don't look much like an Eduardo." Beat. "I'm Mark Zuckerberg."

A relieved smile breaks out across Eduardo's face. "Brazilian Jew." And really, how many times has he had to say that in the last month? More than the entire time he lived in Miami, probably. "We're excellent at creating discrepancies between our names and our faces. It's nice to meet you, Mark."

Mark doesn't respond except by nodding a little absently, and okay, that's kind of strange, but Eduardo will take what he can get, except now Eduardo's standing there awkwardly, too, and it's silent, and he can feel some sort of social anxiety panic attack coming on. "I think there's beer," he blurts out, and yep, that's exactly what he was trying to avoid. "Somewhere around here. If you want one, I mean."

Luckily, Mark isn't too off-put. Or at least doesn't look it. "I think I'm going to need beer if I'm going to stay here much longer." That's a positive response, even if he doesn't wait for Eduardo when he leaves to wander into the next room. It doesn't matter. Eduardo's more than up to the task of trailing after him.

\---

They both get sort of partway drunk, not quite smashed but a little bit more than tipsy. Eduardo discovers that Mark is from Long Island, he's likely to major in computer programming and psychology, and he's been awake for over twenty-four hours. That's about it as far as concrete details go; Mark responds to the few personal questions that Eduardo dares to ask with hand-waving vagueness, not out of any desire to conceal, but more out of a conviction that Mark's favorite color and birthday aren't really that important to anyone other than his family. Eduardo would agree, maybe, but Mark's the current object of his fascination, an object who doesn't seem keen on volunteering personal details of his own volition.

Eduardo's people watching skills come into play, however, because he figures out a lot more about Mark through observance that he ever would through a directed line of questioning. He's got a sharp tongue that only seems to be exacerbated through the consumption of alcohol, but one that's surprisingly only turned on Eduardo a few times over the course of the night. He's almost painfully awkward, dropping and picking up the threads of conversation seemingly at random and making Eduardo feel like an absolute idiot every time he can't follow along.

He also appears to like Eduardo well enough, judging by the way he taps his cell phone number into Eduardo's phone without even asking if Eduardo wants it. (He does.) And Mark might not be the definition of cool, but Eduardo's not so sure he's interested in cool in the first place, considering how uninterested "cool" seems to be in _him_.

He wakes up the next morning, curled up tight under the covers in his dorm, with the recollection that he's supposed to hang out and play video games with Mark in a week's time and a text message with a room number awaiting him. He smiles. Not so bad for a party that he wasn't invited to in the first place.

\---

It turns out the the room number that Mark texted Eduardo isn't actually Mark's room, a fact that Mark verifies readily, without any sense that he should have possibly conveyed this information _before_ Eduardo knocked on the door and was met with the very bewildered face of a blond boy named Dustin. Eduardo's ready to back out and run away, but luckily Dustin doesn't stay bewildered for very long, just grabs Eduardo's lanky arm and drags him inside and towards the Xbox.

Eduardo doesn't ask, but apparently Mark and Dustin met in the dining hall a few weeks ago and have been _meaning_ to get together and hang out for a few weeks but just never seemed to get around to it, and no, Mark didn't tell Dustin that Eduardo was coming either, but it's fine, totally fine.

Dustin's gregarious and about as charming as a nerdy eighteen-year-old boy can be, and he brushes off Mark's verbal barbs with more finesse than Eduardo thinks he'll ever be able to muster and he's all around quite likable, as far as Eduardo's concerned. They haven't been playing Halo for too long before the door slams _open_ and another blond boy steps in, this one apparently named Chris and apparently Dustin's roommate. He's a little taciturn but he flops down on the couch next to Dustin and makes a few gentle, choice comments and he's okay, he's totally okay, and hell, Eduardo is actually _hanging out_ with other people.

So his attention might be mostly fixated on Mark, which is excusable, in his eyes, considering that Mark's the one who invited him there in the first place and ostensibly the person he knows the best. He finds that sober Mark isn't really that much different from drunk Mark, maybe a little less overt, but Mark playing video games takes a terrifying intensity that leaves Eduardo's little avatar dead in the dust—Dustin's, not so much.

Eduardo's enjoying himself and it's strange, because when he stops to think about it, he really doesn't enjoy himself all that often; too many of his teenage years were reduced to taking pleasure in what limited and constricted fashions he could manage, and he hasn't been on his own long enough to really work out the mechanisms to establish a good mood that's existent as often as he presents one. But then he starts to fall asleep and Mark punches him in the arm to wake him up and Eduardo's met with that curious mixture of uncertainty and bravado that he's starting to realize is pretty commonplace with Mark. And he realizes that he's probably well on his way.

  
\---  
\---

  
A month later, they finally get around to talking about what their actual classes are and discover that they're in the same freshman writing seminar, the same one that led to their friendship in the first place, just different sections. They're lying on the floor in Mark's dorm, his actual dorm this time, and Mark's got his legs propped up flat against the side of his bed and a copy of _Crime and Punishment_ face-down on his chest, more than happy to let Eduardo parse through the text for the both of them.

"This is the stupidest shit I've ever read." It's amazing how vehement Mark manages to sound when he's effectively splayed out on the carpet and completely immobile, looking less than a college student than a prepubescent. "Raskolnikov should have killed himself, not gone to _Siberia_."

It'd be easier to get this studying over with if Mark was bad at interpreting literature. He's not, though—in fact, he's rather distressingly good at it, which makes it all the more difficult for Eduardo to convince him to stop placing value judgments on get on with the actual task at hand. "He lived because Dostoevsky was a religious nut," Eduardo says, patiently, slowly, explaining something that he knows that Mark already knows. "It's a hell of a lot more uplifting to your average nineteenth century Russian Christian for him to experience the healing powers of the snow and a hot, pious prostitute than be doomed to eternal hellfire."

Mark snorts but maybe he's had enough cyclical arguing for the afternoon because he doesn't respond, just closes his eyes for a moment before popping them back open and turning his head to look at Eduardo intently. "I'm an atheist, you know."

Eduardo's getting better at dealing with the sudden shifts in subject matter—and really, he can almost see where the train of thought is going in this one—but it still takes him a moment to collect his thoughts enough to deliver a coherent response, because he can't say something stupid, not when Mark's so quick to jump on any form of idiocy. "I haven't given it that much thought." And that's a fucking lie, but Eduardo's not about to tell him about the amount of time he spent over the course of his childhood praying to a God he wasn't sure was there. "But I'd, yeah, probably consider myself an atheist too."

It's like Mark doesn't even realize that Eduardo has responded, something that Eduardo's starting to get used to as well. "It was probably solidified around the time of my bar mitzvah," he says musingly, turning away from Eduardo to stare back up at the ceiling. "Which is the opposite of what my parents were intending, I'm sure, but really, you shouldn't make a thirteen-year-old boy memorize scripture if you're hoping otherwise."

Eduardo shrugs about as well as he can manage from his vantage point on the ground. "I don't think Dostoevsky would care too much one way or the other. We dirty Jews are burning in hellfire for all eternity, anyway."

That gets a little snicker and Eduardo looks over to see that Mark's looking over at him too and they're trading tiny little smiles—and that's something different on Mark's face, something almost like approval, and Eduardo doesn't know why it makes his stomach clench in pleasure but it does. Mark's saying something that Eduardo's not hearing but hey, he's picking his book back up for the first time in two hours and Eduardo's not going to interrupt _that_ —let somebody else try to understand Svidrigailov for a change.

\---

Eduardo aces the final and Mark does not. He plans on telling Mark his grade eventually, really, but it's not so easy after Mark's twenty minute tirade against humanities majors. Then the subject doesn't come up again, and Eduardo's not about to breach it himself—he's content to keep his transcript and his social life separate if that's what he needs.

 

\---  
\---

  
It's Thanksgiving break and Eduardo's back in Miami, doing absolutely nothing, celebrating nothing, because _Brazilian_ , remember? There are high school friends around, close enough and not _so_ occupied with familial duties that Eduardo couldn't pressure them into hanging out with him, but he's not even entirely sure if he wants to—it's not like he's made that much of an effort to keep up with them, after all.

So he's sitting at the kitchen table, pretending to read the stock reports but fixating on the typeface instead, when his phone buzzes loudly on the table next to him. Eduardo snatches it quickly, wincing at the hideous noise the phone makes when it reverberates against the wood, and flips it open to delete the inevitable "Happy Thanksgiving" mass text.

`happy annual celebration of european supremacy and systematic elimination of native peoples! see you in a few days.`

It's Mark, of course, and Eduardo doesn't even realize the goofy smile that's spread over his face until his mom asks him what it is. He makes some passable excuse, shoves the phone back into his pocket. The message remains intact.

\---

They get back to school and they're supposed to meet after class to get coffee, at this cushy new place that's opened in the interim and has the fluffiest looking armchairs Eduardo's ever seen. They don't plan on getting together beforehand, just meeting when they get there, because scheduling is complicated and all of their classes are on different parts of the campus and it's just easier to meet there, okay? Or at least that's the logic that Eduardo was more than willing to accept when Mark had proposed it.

The café _does_ have comfortable armchairs, one of which Eduardo is currently slouched in, but it's also almost too precious for him to handle, meaning that Mark's likely to head for the hills after more than ten minutes in the place. That's what Eduardo would expect, anyway—he doesn't actually know, because even though they set the time for almost forty minutes ago, Mark has yet to show up.

Eduardo takes a sip of his chai latte, grimacing at the way it's gone slightly cold from having sat out for too long, and tries to force himself not to look up every time he hears the jingle the signifies someone has come through the door. He'd like to pretend that this is uncharacteristic of Mark, but it's not, really; Eduardo knows that Mark's mostly living in his own universe, he just chooses not to acknowledge it most of the time. He knows that Mark's tardiness isn't _intentional_ at least, because if Mark was angry with him? He'd never result to such blatant passive aggression when he could just as easily tell Eduardo to his face.

He takes another sip and ugh, no, he's going to have to just give up on that, and he looks down at his watch to see that it's nudging forty-five minutes now and Mark's really, really not showing up. The barista's giving him a dirty look, like an " _order another drink or else vacate that valuable seat, please_ " kind of look, and Eduardo's had enough. He grabs his coat, scans the shop one last time, just in case, just in case, and leaves.

Mark shows up at his dorm later that night and says nothing about the meeting that he blew off, just chatters about some dumbass girl who ran into him in the hall and then bitched when all her books fell to the ground, and Eduardo wants to say something but doesn't. Mark probably just forgot, nothing personal. Forty-five minutes isn't _that_ long in the grand scheme of things, anyway. Not to Eduardo, at least.

  
\---  
\---

  
Eduardo does not like the snow. It was almost a dealbreaker for him and Harvard—he doesn't like being cold in general, and living in Florida has spoiled him to the point where anything less than 60 degrees is automatically miserable. Dustin's from Florida, too, but that doesn't stop him from enjoying the cold weather to his utmost ability, judging from the large snowball he pelts Eduardo with as soon as they're outside long enough for him to form one.

Eduardo's good-natured, but not enough so to stop the deep scowl from forming on his face as he wipes away the moisture. "We're _supposed_ to be going to lunch," he points out, holding out a hand defensively as Dustin begins forming another snowball. "There's no point in walking into town if we're just going to be soaking wet when we get there. They won't let us in."

"Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing." And Eduardo's feeling betrayed, _really_ betrayed right now, because this is Chris speaking, and he's supposed to be the calm, rational one in this equation, the one who doesn't support the senseless dispersal of slush as a form of entertainment. "We've all got food in our dorms, or there's the dining hall if you're not in the mood for ramen."

"And we've yet to have a truly excellent snowball fight," Dustin adds, and the snowball he's accumulated is truly impressive and just waiting for a target. "We'll get lunch some other time, Wardo. Come on."

So Eduardo's standing there, speechless in his designer clothing that was made to _withstand_ the snow, not endure a relentless onslaught of such, arms hanging limply down by his sides as he gives his friends his best pleading look. He opens his mouth to no doubt uselessly implore them to stop when _another_ snowball comes out of nowhere to smack him square in the back of his head, causing his neck to snap forward painfully and a most undignified yelp to spill forth from his lips.

He whips around, unsure of what he's going to say but definitely going to say _something_ , to see Mark standing behind him, arm still outstretched from the fateful throw. His cheeks are flushed from the cold and there are bits of snow flecked in his hair and he's got this look on his face like a little kid who's done something wrong and is about to be punished but doesn't care, not even remotely, because it was _awesome_.

And Eduardo falters and Mark composes himself into a smirk—there may or may not be a tackle into a nearby snowbank and the complete devolution of everything that Eduardo thought was good and civilized, including a moment when Dustin chooses to rub snow directly into Eduardo's _hair_ to "get all the gel out" and wet, cold things in uncomfortable places like directly down Chris's pants. Eduardo will never admit why he relented, or that he relented at all, but payback for Mark? May have factored in. Just a bit.

\---

Of course, there are more reasons than just the immediate discomfort to avoid traipsing around in the snow for too long—like the fact that Mark's immune system takes a beating and leaves him curled up and sniffling in bed, showing symptoms from coughing to sneezing to fever to something that Eduardo thinks might be a very nasty rash. Eduardo discovers readily that Mark spares nobody from his caustic comments when sick, something that might be more of an affront if they didn't lose some of their edge when delivered by a boy with the covers pulled up to his eyes.

The rest of them, the three of them that have managed to remain intact even in face of snow-induced misery, decide immediately that they're going to have to take this on a shift basis, aren't they? The option of leaving Mark by himself immediately goes out the window as soon as Dustin discovers him trying to sneak out of the room and to his psychology seminar—a plan that was only thwarted by the fact that Mark immediately gets too dizzy and has to sit down in the hall to collect himself. So Chris draws together a schedule and Dustin color-codes it and all of their sleep schedules are irregular enough that there's really just this one gap, a period of time that even Mark would be sleeping, anyway.

Chris is off to his art history course so it's Eduardo's turn for the next few hours. They don't close the door all the way, since Mark refuses to relinquish control of his key and Mark's roommate vacated the premises as soon as he sensed anything that could be construed as "influenza," so Eduardo's able to enter the room quietly, as unobtrusively as he possibly can. He comes bearing gifts in the form of a thermos of chicken soup, pulled _directly_ from the dining hall, and a blue Gatorade that's barely been out of the vending machine long enough to lose any of the condensation that builds up on the sides.

It turns out that that doesn't matter, though, because Mark is sound asleep in the middle of the day. He's clammy and pale and has his legs and arms pulled up into the fetal position, and even though his light curls are damp with sweat, Eduardo wants nothing more than to reach out and touch him, do something soothing or whatever you're supposed to do in these situations. He doesn't, though, because contrary to observations made by some, Eduardo _is_ aware of personal boundaries, so instead he puts the food down on Mark's bedside table and gingerly sits down on the desk chair.

Too bad Mark's a light sleeper and the soft clatter of a plastic bottle against wood is enough to make his eyelids flutter open. Eduardo freezes but nope, Mark's awake now, even if his eyes are only open the tiniest bit and he's yet to move any other part of his body.

He mumbles something into the pillow and Eduardo leans forward in an unspoken request for Mark to repeat. "You don't have to _be_ here," Mark says, lifting his head up just enough to not be speaking directly into the mattress.

"There's very little that I actually _have_ to do," Eduardo says, eying Mark critically. "But I _choose_ to be here, and unless you're looking to wrestle me out of here, which I can't say I'm anticipating any time soon, you're stuck with me until Dustin rolls around."

Mark groans and it might be a result of Eduardo's presence, but it could _just_ as easily be because he's miserable and tired and sick and that's the option that Eduardo's going to go with, no reason, really, it just makes a little more sense. Besides, it's the perfect cue to bring out all of Eduardo's barely concealed mother henning instincts, and he grabs the thermos to open it not that far from Mark's face and let the smell of chicken waft out enticingly.

Well, it should have been enticing. Too bad Mark wrinkles his nose and flops back down on the bed completely, muttering something that sounds distressingly like, " _Not_ hungry" and turning to avoid Eduardo's gaze.

"I know you're not hungry," Eduardo says in his best calming tone. "But you want to eat if you want to feel better."

This is what Eduardo has learned about being friends with Mark Zuckerberg: it's really just easier to go along with whatever he's saying, even if it's the most ridiculous shit Eduardo's ever heard, even if he's trying to claim that the Red Hot Chili Peppers have artistic merit or that French is the most beautiful of the romance languages, to just placate him for the time being, but then go back and try to change his mind as subtly as possible. It doesn't work some of the time, even most of the time, but it works _enough_ of the time that Eduardo's going to clutch to his non-confrontational approach as long as he possibly can.

It seems to be working this time, because Mark's sitting up to lean against the headboard, albeit with a grumble and a stark glare. Eduardo just presses the thermos into Mark's hands, because really, Mark's nose is all red from where he's been rubbing at it and his eyes are sleepy and he's looking even more non-threatening than he usually is. "Eating this is a disgusting stereotype," he says hoarsely, taking his first sip of the broth.

Eduardo's smile is beatific."It's got about three days' worth of sodium content, more than enough to replace whatever you've lost," he says with a shrug. "Don't knock it if it works." Mark looks like he's about to argue, but fatigue wins out, because he just takes another sip instead, and Eduardo feels more triumphant than he really has a right to.

  
\---  
\---

  
Eduardo sits at the coffee shop for over an hour this time before he gives up and goes home. There's an accusatory text message saved in his drafts, but he doesn't send it, not when he doesn't need to.

  
\---  
\---

  
It's right before winter break—Christmas break, Mark insists on calling it, considering that Hanukkah started the week before they were allowed to leave—and Eduardo's got the latest final out of all of his friends. It's the night before his flight and he's all alone, everyone else has gone back to their families already but _fucking_ international finance has been the death of him since day one and doesn't seem to want to change now that it's the bitter end, meaning that his professor scheduled the final exam for Friday evening and he's only _just_ finished.

So Eduardo's alone in his dorm room until he realizes that there's absolutely no reason for him to confine himself to his lonely postage stamp of allocated space. And you're not _really_ supposed to fly while you're dehydrated but Eduardo's good at wrangling those complimentary water bottles out of even the most ornery of flight attendants, and he totally got the name of his place over in Boston proper that doesn't card or anything, and before he can muster up the logic to make himself _stop_ he grabs his coat and he's out the door and on a bus.

He's at the bar with a beer in hand, and they _really_ didn't ask him, it's absolutely ridiculous, and he realizes that as a virile young male, he's supposed to be the one to go out and flirt with the myriad of girls clustered around the bar. But if Eduardo's going to be honest, something he avoids being with himself unless he absolutely has to, the practice of going out and hitting on strange, hot, unknown girls is usually more trouble than it's worth; he doesn't know much about other boys his age, but the stream of rejections following his stilted and awkward introductions don't do much except kill his self-esteem even more than usual.

Maybe that's why he responds so receptively to the girl who sits down next to him, the girl who makes it so he doesn't have to go out and fish around for himself—or maybe it's because she's pretty and charming and seems like she might actually have a genuine interest in him. Her name's Michelle Chen and he gets the _Chen_ part but she's also got blonde hair and freckles and he doesn't connect the dots until she rolls her eyes and tells him she's only _half_ -Chinese—tells him with a mischievous little smile and the reassurance not to worry, she thinks his curiosity is _cute_.

She's a junior at Tufts, a poli-sci major, and old enough that she doesn't have to sneak into whatever bar will take her. She talks circles around Eduardo but giggles and smiles in all the right places and maybe even bullies him into saying a few sentences in Portuguese just to hear how it sounds. And Eduardo doesn't even really end up drinking all that much, but he still manages to feel light-headed and completely vulnerable when he talks to her, and when she kisses his cheek goodnight and presses a napkin with a phone number into his hand, his cheeks flush a dark red and stay that way until he can force himself to stop thinking about her.

\---

When they get back from break, Eduardo tells Mark all about her and is met with nothing more than a noncommittal grunt. They date for two and a half months and then Michelle breaks up with him, telling him to come back when he's matured a little bit. It's not mean, unless pitying is mean, and she punctuates it with a kiss on the cheek identical to their first. He doesn't tell Mark about it, and Mark doesn't ask.

  
\---  
\---

  
For someone living as a young adult in the twenty-first century, Eduardo's almost alarmingly terrible with computers. He's wrangled Word documents and got the general gist of the internet, but the more technical aspects baffle him in a way that's truly horrifying to his close friends—Dustin's "practical joke" of changing his desktop background to gay porn may have been entertaining in the moment, but not nearly so much when he had to spend the next twenty minutes teaching Wardo how to turn it back.

By second semester, Mark's roommate has requested a room change, citing Mark's irregular hours as too much to handle, meaning that Mark has effectively managed to turn a double room into a single through nothing but the power of his prickliness. So Eduardo has no qualms anymore about bringing his schoolwork to Mark's room to sit at the other desk and keep Mark company while he works and maybe even learn something about what's going on in those ridiculously intricate lines of code. Occasionally he asks questions, questions which Mark answers in increasingly confusing and incomprehensible language, but answer all the same, but mostly Eduardo sits and puzzles out the intricacies of the elasticity of demand in silence, letting Mark fuck with the future of civilization or whatever the hell he does in his computer science classes.

And. Well. Sometimes it's late and he's tired, and Eduardo's a good person who will almost always bring dinner for the two of them when he comes over, so he doesn't feel bad about lying down on Mark's bed instead of working at the desk—it's a just reward, after all. He'd lie down on the other bed, the unoccupied one, but Mark's former roommate took his bedspread and sheets with him, so it's just a bare mattress, and a scratchy one at that.

It's not like Mark really notices, or cares, that Eduardo's lying on his bed to do his reading—it's not like he's _in_ Mark's bed, just on it. And he's always gone by the time Mark actually wants to go to bed, if he even _does_ go to bed; Eduardo wouldn't be surprised if Mark just slept on top of his keyboard every night instead. So it's a system, one that works out well enough for the both of them. One that works out for Eduardo, at least.

It's a Thursday and Eduardo doesn't have class the next day until late, ridiculously late, like, _three_ or something. He brought Thai food for them to eat, the remnants of which are now strewn all over the room, aside from the pad thai, which Mark has hoarded for himself all at his desk. Mark's working on some programming assignment that's due the next day and Eduardo has long since migrated to Mark's bed, reading and rereading the same passage about GDP in lesser developed countries or some shit that he really, really does not care about.

Later, he rationalizes that he would have stayed awake if macroeconomics weren't so fucking boring, but really, he just has to reconcile himself to the fact that he's never going to be able to stay awake with the same superhuman intensity as Mark can. He'd have hoped that an econ textbook wouldn't make an effective pillow, but it's more than adequate enough for Eduardo, judging from the way he passes out on Mark's bed with his face smashed against some terrifying-looking supply and demand graphs.

Eduardo's confident in his ability to wake himself up when needs be, but as he finds himself swimming back to consciousness after a sharp jab in his shoulder, he can't help but wonder if that confidence is misplaced. "Wardo." It's Mark, of course, speaking too loudly for the dark silence of the tiny room—something Eduardo's more than happy to fixate upon until he realizes _Mark_ , _bed_ , _sleep_ , and he's pulling his head up and there's a page that's stuck to his face and not moving and it's bad, bad.

He moves to get up, because, um, hello, _sleeping in someone else's bed_ , and Mark's more than justified to kick him out, really, even if it is 1:30 in the morning and Eduardo's room is so painfully _far_ away, but Eduardo barely has time to properly assemble his limbs before the same hand that jabbed him awake is gently pushing him back to the bed. "I'm not trying to wake you up, I'm just trying to get you to move a little," Mark says sharply, probably more sharply than he really meant, if Eduardo knows anything about Mark, which is a lot, he knows a fucking _lot_ about Mark.

He's going to say something, but instead Mark takes the lift of his head as an opportunity to pull the textbook out from underneath Eduardo's head and throw it on the ground with a clatter that makes Eduardo curl up on himself involuntarily. "I just needed to get that out of the way," Mark says, whispering now, finally catching onto the rules of the game. He's done placating Eduardo, now, apparently, because rather than asking Eduardo to move over, he takes the initiative and pushes Eduardo over to the wall himself, making just enough room for Mark to pull up the duvet and slip his thin body beneath the sheets.

"If you try to get up now, you'll just bother me even more." And that's not to placate Eduardo, that's to make sure he doesn't piss off _Mark_ , and, yeah, Eduardo may be sleep-addled but he can tell that this is kind of weird, like you're not supposed to just cuddle up with your best friend, but he's also _sleep-addled_ and the bed is about twice as warm now that there's another body occupying it and it's _so_ much easier to just slip back into the throes of exhaustion than protest.

He wakes up the next morning to an empty room and an empty bed, and Eduardo would attribute it to being one of the more disturbing dreams he's had, but there's a post-it note attached to his head and when he pulls it down to look at what it says, it becomes very apparent that it wasn't a dream, not a dream at all.

`Went to class. BTW you're really handsy in your sleep, might want to work on that.`

It's not any more shameful than anything else in the past twenty-four hours has been, really, but Eduardo's cheeks still burn in embarrassment as he gathers his things to go back to his room.

  
\---

  
One of the benefits of being an econ major— _one_ of the benefits, okay, there are a plethora of others, not least of which it is an interesting subject that is applicable to everyday life—is that it exposes Eduardo to a number of people who are quite a bit higher up on the great chain of being than he is. Exposes him to them, and Eduardo's a pretty nice guy, as far as guys go, so he can add _endears_ him to them to that list, meaning that by the time his freshman year is starting to wind up, he's being invited to an alarming number of parties that he'd never have been near with a ten foot _pole_ just a few months ago.

This is the only benefit, as far as Mark's concerned—not for his own needs, of course, but because it's good for Eduardo, it really is. So _maybe_ Mark browbeat Eduardo into taking him to this party that's happening on Friday night, but it's not like he does it all the time, and it's natural for Mark to be curious about these stupid parties, anyway. At least they can probably make fun of it together.

Except for the part where Eduardo's sitting at the bottom of someone's stairs with Mark nowhere to be found. He's got a drink in his hand, Coke and vodka diluted enough that he can barely feel the burn, but he's hardly even buzzed; it seems a little pathetic to drink by himself when he's surrounded by an entire houseful of people.

He's kind of tired, though, not to mention bored, and someone's making loud retching noises _way_ too close to where he's sitting, so Eduardo pulls out his phone with the full intent to just _call_ Mark and get them out of there as quickly as possible.

Nobody picks up, of course, which shouldn't have been surprising, considering that Mark's too lazy or preoccupied to pick up his phone on a good day, so Eduardo forces himself to get up and go searching. He weaves through the crowd of people, a sea of unfamiliar faces who _can't_ possibly all be Harvard students, not when some of them look so fucking _old_ , and eventually works his way from the living room to the kitchen.

There, he stops, because he most definitely finds what he was looking for. Mark's there, he's _there_ , but he's also been pushed up against the refrigerator by some girl with long, dark hair and heels high enough that she towers over him, just a bit. Eduardo's about to turn around a leave, because he _really_ doesn't need to see this, and they're drunk, judging by the way the girl can barely stand up straight and seems to be latching onto Mark's jawbone and cheeks more than his lips, but then Mark opens his eyes and _looks_ right at him and he's not drunk, definitely not drunk, even if she is.

Eduardo raises up his hand in acknowledgment, trying to ignore the queasy apprehension that's forming in his stomach, and turns around for real this time. He walks back into the living room and resumes his post on the stairs. Forty-five minutes later, Mark appears in front of him, looking a little ravaged but certainly _pleased_ with himself, but they leave. Eduardo won't bring up what he saw—that would mean he would have to accept that he'd seen it in the first place.

  
\---  
\---

  
It's hot outside now and they won't be there that much longer. They're watching _Star Wars_ in Mark's room that afternoon, as many of them as the four of them can possibly sit through, and Eduardo just can't resist turning it into a _thing_ so he's there obscenely early to organize all of the snacks into bowls whose coloring will perfectly offset whatever unnatural food coloring has been poured into their trans fat of choice.

He's got everything more or less set up, except for the Starbursts, which Mark won't let him get anywhere near, and Eduardo stands up to survey his handiwork with no small amount of satisfaction. Mark's trying to find the best way to angle his laptop so that they can all see it while lying comfortably on the floor, and he's babbling about something having to do with computers that Eduardo doesn't even remotely understand. And then he's got it _just_ right, and he stands up, still talking and gesticulating animatedly, and he does it in a way that he's close to Eduardo, very close.

And he'd probably step away if Eduardo would give him a second, but Eduardo doesn't give him a second, because something about the way Mark's looking that day or the unhealthy heat of the room or Eduardo's particularly fucked-up brand of brain chemistry makes him think it's a wonderful idea to lean down and smash his lips against Mark's in an instance.

It's a smash, definitely, clumsy and inelegant and not dissimilar at all to Eduardo's first kiss with Marie Evans in the back of the school bus in ninth grade, but Eduardo would fix it in an instant if Mark would just give him a _chance_. And even though it feels like they kiss for an eternity, an uncomfortable eternity, in retrospect Eduardo realizes that it's a second at most before Mark tears himself away and takes a few hasty step backwards, knocking over more than a few bowls of Eduardo's carefully organized chips and other assorted snacks.

It's okay, because Eduardo takes a few step back, too, realizing belatedly that this room really isn't wide enough to get an appropriate amount of space between them right now. Mark's openly staring at him and he reaches up to wipe his lips, unconsciously, like he doesn't even need to think before knowing that he doesn't want the taste of Eduardo's lips on his, and Eduardo wants nothing more than to blurt out the apology he's forming, _I'm sorry, I have no idea what the fuck just happened, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry_ , but instead he's silent and they're staring at each other, completely immobile.

"Eduardo." And of course Mark's the one to speak first, with a look of confusion and concern that Eduardo would find novel if he wasn't too fucking mortified. "Eduardo. I—don't want...that."

Mark sounds almost _nice_ , the nicest Eduardo's ever heard him sound, and he just wants to fucking die, because Mark's talking to him like _this_ because Eduardo _kissed_ him and it's just a waste, a fucking waste. The words tumble out of him like vomit, now. "I know, I know, I don't—I have no idea what happened, I'm fucking sorry, man." _Man_ and this is a very masculine situation, okay, something that could happen between two bros, just an accident.

Mark nods and he's so blatantly uncomfortable that Eduardo just wants to hug him or something, not that'd do anything to alleviate the situation, and they're both quiet, because there's nothing they can say to this, really. Eduardo wonders if this has been an elephant in the room for Mark as long as it's been for him, then decides he doesn't want to know, that he's not sure what answer would be better in this situation. "Listen," he says slowly, and there's his soothing Eduardo voice back, it's not cracking and panicky like it was a few moments ago, and okay, this can end if they want it to. "Can we...can we just forget that this ever happened? Just forever? Like never talk about it again?"

Mark's opening his mouth like he wants to protest, like _no_ , can we please talk about this and dissect what impulse could possibly bring you to try to kiss your best friend? But instead he closes his mouth again, the way a goldfish gasping for oxygen would, and he nods dumbly, again, and sits back down, avoiding eye contact at any cost.

\---

Chris and Dustin show up in ten minutes. They don't notice anything, or at least don't say anything if they do. Eduardo's firmly convinced that _Star Wars_ can heal all wounds.

  
\---  
\---

  
By moving out day, things have returned to normal, the pact to _never say anything, ever_ more intact than Eduardo would have ever thought it was. He's already got his things in boxes, ready to be loaded and shipped back to Florida, but Mark's floundering, most of his things still strewed around his dorm in typically Mark haphazard fashion, so Eduardo's in there helping him get things tidied up and ready for packing.

"Helping" is a subject term, he supposes, because in practice, it's more like Mark lying limply on his bed while Eduardo putters around and folds and organizes and stacks everything _for_ him. They're talking, about something stupid, like what they're doing over the summer and some stupid investment Eduardo's making that's _never_ going to work out, when a lull comes up in the conversation. Mark takes this opportunity to pounce.

"Remember Erica?" And no, Eduardo doesn't remember Erica, though he's desperately trying, now. Mark appears to notice this dilemma, for once. "You know, Erica. I met her at that party we went to awhile ago."

Eduardo can't stop his eyebrows from shooting up. " _Met_ her?" Because up until now, he wasn't aware that Erica had a name, or was anything other than some bizarre hook-up that Mark had scored by benefit of copious amount of alcohol and sheer _existence_. That's mean—he feels guilty for even thinking it. "I, uh, yeah, I remember her. Wow. I didn't—realize that that was a thing, I guess."

"It wasn't," Mark says nonchalantly, even though they both know that there's nothing nonchalant about this at all. "Until last night. We went out, just for drinks or whatever." And now he's looking at Eduardo and _does_ seem almost nervous, which doesn't even make any sense, because it's not like Eduardo's got any _claim_ on him or anything as stupid as that. "And it was nice. And I think I'm going to maybe see her this summer."

Eduardo exhales the breath he didn't even realize he was holding, and smiles, broadly and fixedly and very similar to far too many of his smiles. "That's great, Mark," he says, and finds that he means it. "She was pretty hot, yeah?" Because this is how guy friends talk.

Mark smiles, genuinely, and he's so obviously relieved that Eduardo finds himself wishing once again that he could travel back in time to warn himself to stop or something. "I mean, she goes to BU, but nobody's perfect, right?"

Eduardo laughs, and goes back to work (doing Mark's work for him.) He tries not to think about it.

\---

Mark's family is coming to pick him up but Eduardo has to wait for a taxi to come take him to the airport. He's sitting outside the dorm, suitcases organized strategically around him for maximum mobility as well as maximum visibility, when his phone, deep in the pocket of his pants, buzzes angrily.

`you should come up to new york this summer, maybe stop me from killing my family?`

It's so typically, disgustingly Mark. Eduardo smiles.


End file.
